


A Forever Kind of Family

by elrhiarhodan



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Comfort Porn, Depression, Emotional Trauma, F/M, Found Families, Friendship, Future Fic, Grief, Humor, Post-Finale, Reunion, episode tage, fake death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 17:57:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4845002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year between his "death" and the final sentencing of the Pink Panthers brought a lot of changes in Neal's life, and in Peter's, too. Families are made - by birth and by choice - and both men learn that the bonds of friendship can never really be broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Forever Kind of Family

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a pinch hit for Eldorah's artwork created for Round 2 of the White Collar Reverse Big Bang.
> 
> Beta Credit: Sinfulslasher
> 
> And now in Russian, thanks to Remmy - can be found [here, on Ficbook](https://ficbook.net/readfic/6692618). Thank you, Remmy!

__________________

Neal never thought of himself as a man who'd be alone forever, but that had become the sad, inexorable truth in his life.

Kate was dead.

Sara was as out of his reach as the moon.

Rebecca never existed and even if he could stomach a relationship with a murderous psychopath, Rachel's well-staged "death" on a New York City street made that impossible. Once, when he was very drunk and very depressed by his own "death", he'd thought about trying to find her. It wouldn't be too hard – he'd just follow the trail of dead bodies she couldn't help leave in her wake.

Maybe it was better this way. One night stands with pretty girls that sometimes lasted for a week or two, or even a month. That was all he seemed capable of these days. Love 'em and let 'em go.

Why did he ever think that faking his death would be a good thing? At the time, it seemed like the most selfless thing he could do. Except he knew that Elizabeth would tell him that, once again, he did the wrong thing for the right reason. He thought at the time that his reasons were above reproach – keeping Peter and El and their unborn son safe, keeping _everyone_ he loved safe, ensuring that Moz had enough wealth to buy that private island, and then some.

Neal kept telling himself that his "death" was a selfless act. Sometimes, he even believed it.

But he couldn't stop wondering what his friends were doing, how they were getting on without him. June's updates were sporadic, which is how he wanted them - just the essentials. Elizabeth's pregnancy was going well. She was over her morning sickness and – if the pictures June had sent were any indication – Elizabeth was glowing with happiness. The photo of Peter was heartbreaking – he was clearly delighted by his impending fatherhood, but Neal could see the shadows there. The shadows he had created. 

He couldn't help but keep track of the time – El was three months along when he "died", so right about now, she and Peter would be going to childbirth classes, learning how to breathe, when to push, all that fun stuff. Neal ached from the thought of everything he was going to miss – he wouldn't be there, waiting with Peter because as much as he tried, he couldn't see Big Bad Peter Burke in the delivery room with Elizabeth.

Or maybe he could. Peter wasn't squeamish, he wasn't some wilting flower of a man who'd pass out at the sight of blood. No, Peter Burke met life head-on, and he absolutely would be with Elizabeth. Holding her hand, telling her to breathe, telling her that everything would be all right.

That she'd be fine.

And that's when the camera of his imagination had to stop, because Neal couldn't bear the memories of Peter, holding his hand, telling him he'd be all right. He couldn't bear the memory of the shock and grief and pain in his friend's eyes, how his voice broke.

Neal wondered if Peter would ever forgive him for what he did.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**Two Months Post Mortem - Saint Peter**

The doorbell rang. That would be his latest amour. Christine was one of the beautiful people, slumming in Paris for Fashion Week. He'd met her on his flight to Paris and they'd hit it off quite well. She was something of an airhead, but she was rich, beautiful and there was nothing about her that would ever touch his heart. 

When Christine suggested they get together, Neal programmed one of his many cellphone numbers into her mobile. At the time, it seemed like a good idea, but at the time, he was drunk. Mixing single-malt Scotch and premium vodka on an airplane was never a wise choice. Now he regretted accepting her offer. 

The problem was that Christine was not just an airhead. She was thoughtless and cruel and if it wasn't for the fact that he really, _really_ wanted to get into the opening night exhibit of Cartier's latest collection (for research purposes only), he'd have dumped her like last week's leftovers.

So he put on his best con man's smile, straightened his bow tie and answered the door.

Christine waltzed in on a cloud of … canine.

"Here, take this." She handed him a leash and made a beeline for the powder room. 

Neal looked down. At the business end of the leash was a rather startlingly large ball of white and brown fur with very serious dark eyes - a Saint Bernard. Not the usual choice for a socialite, since this creature was at least fifteen times the size of the average purse pet.

Neal murmured, "You have got to be kidding me."

Apparently, the creature wasn't. It barked once, a very stern sound, and sat down. It wasn't exactly staring at Neal, but there was an intensity to its gaze that left him feeling summed up and found wanting. He had never been this up-close-and-personal with a Saint Bernard before.

Christine emerged from the powder room, all smiles and very, very bright eyes. She rubbed her nose, sniffed, and licked her fingers before telling him, "We'll leave Pietro here. He's very well behaved." Then she giggled.

"Pietro?" _Peter, of course._

"Yes. He was a gift."

"Okay." Neal wasn't sure that information was relevant. "How old is he?"

Christine shrugged, and the gesture – like everything else about the woman – irritated him. "I don't know – maybe five, six months old."

Neal blinked and looked back at Pietro. "He's just a puppy?"

"I guess. He doesn't poop inside, if that's what you're worried about. Now, we're going to be late. My driver's waiting for us."

Neal didn't like the idea of leaving the dog behind. It was a puppy and his apartment wasn't puppy-proof.

"Umm, can't we leave him with your driver?"

"No, Georges doesn't like dogs."

Neal wanted to tell Christine that Georges was her employee and was probably paid very well to look after all manner of animals, human or otherwise.

"Come. Pietro will be just fine. He's mostly …" Christine snapped her fingers as she searched for the word, "obedient."

"Mostly?"

"He doesn't like when men try to kiss me. He gets … difficult. But you're safe."

"As long as I don't kiss you, right?"

Christine smirked, tucked her arm in his and dragged him out the door.

The showing was everything he'd expected. Crowded with beautiful people wearing exquisite jewels and couture clothes, sipping vintage Champagne, looking bored and avaricious at the same time. Once, he might have felt right at home, he might have helped himself to a few baubles, left a few women (and maybe a few men) a little lighter in the pocketbook, but extremely happy, nonetheless.

Tonight, however, he was there to check the security and provide a report. Cartier wasn't his client, yet. But if all went well, it would be. It was somewhat amusing to wear the white hat, and it did pay well. He was still working on the contract with the Louvre – and if that came through, it would be his biggest score, but he still needed the smaller jobs. If to prove to himself that he could earn a living _and_ stay on the straight and narrow. The situation with the Louvre was really just a matter of luck –anyone with keen observation should have seen that the security at the world's greatest museum was filled with as many holes as the average wheel of Swiss cheese. The Cartier exhibit was leagues beyond that – except that it reminded him of his very last con. Same security system, same flaws, same endgame.

No, not the same endgame. He wasn't going to show up in some abandoned shipyard in Red Hook to meet with a bunch of psychos. He was going to present an unsolicited report to some very wealthy, very powerful businessmen. Who, come to think of it, might not be all that different from Woodford and his crew.

Except that Matthew Keller wouldn't be there. He was dead, thanks to his own foolish choices and Peter's gun. Keller had no family to grieve for his misbegotten life and the city did what they did with all unclaimed corpses, they buried him in an unmarked grave in Potter's Field on Hart Island, a place no one ever visited.

"Darling, you're not paying much attention to me." When they'd arrived, Christine had drifted off. Now she wrapped herself around him, and Neal bit his tongue – those were the first words she'd spoken to him since they walked in the door. Although tonight would be the last time he saw Christine, he played the adoring lover.

"I should be shot for ignoring such a beautiful woman."

"Yes, you should." Christine preened and dragged him over to one of the central displays. "I want that."

Neal glanced at the Art Deco-inspired diamond, pearl and sapphire collar. "It would suit you."

"Buy it for me."

He stared at Christine, not bothering to mask his incredulity. "I don't have a small kingdom to mortgage for your whims."

"If you don't buy it for me, then we're through!" She actually stamped her foot.

Neal's lips twitched and he had to wonder who was benefiting from this performance. He glanced around the room, and if he wasn't mistaken, there was a Russian oligarch looking daggers at him. So he bowed over his erstwhile lover's hand and bade her farewell.

She sniffed and flounced off – in the direction of the Russian oligarch.

As scenes went, he'd been in the center of far more dreadful ones, and since he'd learned what he needed, it was time to leave.

Neal was halfway home – if his apartment in the shadow of Notre Dame could ever truly be called "home" – when he remembered what Christine had left behind. If he was lucky, she and her new paramour would show up in the morning to demand possession of Pietro and he'd never need to lay eyes on her again.

Pietro was – as Christine had promised – very well behaved. Neal had feared the worst when he opened the door to his apartment. He imagined chaos everywhere, shoes chewed, furniture and rugs and clothing destroyed. Pee and poop everywhere.

But all he found was Pietro sleeping in front of the radiator and everything just the way he had left it.

The dog looked up when Neal walked in. "I'm sorry, boy, but you're stuck with me for tonight."

Pietro sighed and rested his already massive head on those oversized paws, as if this was just what he was expecting.

"Are you hungry? Thirsty?"

Pietro woofed quietly, as if that was possible.

"Hmm, I wonder what I've got for you." Neal went to the kitchen and Pietro followed, sitting at his feet like a very patient guardian. "Let's start with some water." He found an aluminum bowl and filled it.

Pietro drank and Neal was actually relieved when the dog slobbered water all over the place. It was really kind of freakish how well-behaved the animal was.

"Food, food. What would you like to eat?"

Neal may never have owned a dog, but he'd spent plenty of time in Bugsy Ellington and Satchmo Burke's company to know what _not_ to give a dog. Things like cooked broccoli or cauliflower. Not if he didn't want to suffocate from the resulting gaseous emissions. Pity that June hadn't learned that lesson. Bugsy's favorite foods contained vast amounts of sulphur. 

The fridge contained half a roast chicken from the corner brasserie and some blanched haricots verts. It didn't take too long to debone the chicken and chop up the greens. This probably wouldn't be enough for a growing puppy, but it should keep him until the morning, when Christine came to pick him up.

Neal watched with a smile as Pietro just about inhaled the meal.

"I guess you're going to need to go out in a little while."

Pietro licked his chops and panted. It looked, for all the world, like the dog was smiling at him.

"Okay – give me a few minutes to get out of this monkey suit and we'll take a little stroll."

Neal swapped the tuxedo for a pair of chinos and a turtleneck sweater. It was mid-October and the nights were definitely getting cooler. The patent leather oxfords were exchanged for a comfortable pair of sneakers – perfect for an evening walk. Neal located a couple of plastic bags to use for Pietro's leave-behinds, he snapped the dog's leash on, and away they went.

Pietro did his business, Neal held his breath and cleaned up after him, and they were home just as the church bells rang the midnight hour.

Neal looked at the dog, the dog looked at him, and both man and dog sighed. Neal smiled. There was something about Pietro that reminded him of Peter. Like the thousand other times that Neal thought about the friend he had left behind, it hurt, but maybe not so much. The pain was still there, it would always be there, but tonight, it didn't send him running for the scotch.

"Where do you want to sleep?" Why was he even asking the dog that question?

Except that Pietro answered in the most emphatic way possible. He padded over to the bedroom and pushed his way in. Neal shook his head and followed his temporary houseguest. 

As he climbed into bed, Pietro let out a little whimper. Neal knew he was a soft touch – he always was when it came to small children and helpless animals. So he patted the covers and the puppy, which was already close to the size of a full grown Lab, leaped onto the bed, circled around a few times and made himself comfortable against the small of Neal's back.

Neal had to laugh. This is what he was reduced to, spooning with a Saint Bernard.

Christine didn't come back for her dog, not the next day nor the day after. Neal called and texted until he got a message that the cellphone number was no longer in service. So he bought bags of premium, all natural dog food, supplemented with lots of good-for-dog fresh veggies, and tried not to get too attached to Pietro.

As much as he loved them, Neal never planned on owning a dog. Let alone a puppy. A Saint Bernard puppy. Puppies were babies who needed constant attention and love and care and regular feedings. Just like human babies. Puppies needed to be paper trained. They had sharp teeth that didn't care about fine silk-wool blends.

They cried at night.

And sometimes during the day, too.

Besides, con men didn't own dogs, because con men couldn't afford to be tied down to long term responsibilities. They might have a dog for a while, because there's nothing more unremarkable than the sight of a man walking a dog in the pre-dawn hours, eyes at half-mast, poop bag hanging out of his back pocket, waiting to be deployed. Neal had used that scam a dozen different times, scoping out a mark's residence, checking routines, watching the servants come and go.

Dogs were useful like that, and Neal was always careful to return the animal to its rightful owner when he no longer had a use for the creature.

You couldn't do that with puppies. Besides the fact that puppies couldn't go out on a leash until they were a few months old, they were rambunctious and yappy when you least wanted to call attention to yourself. And people tended to stop and coo and ask, "How old is she?" And everyone had an opinion about purebred versus shelter versus rescue. 

When he was casing a mark, the last thing he wanted to do was engage in conversation of any sort.

But he wasn't casing marks these days and his efforts at keeping a little detached from Pietro were an absolute failure. After two weeks of trying to track Christine down through a half-dozen mutual acquaintances, he finally got a message from her.

_Keep the dog or drown him. I don't care. We're through, so stop bothering me._

Well, the second option was never an option. He thought about putting the beast up for adoption, but that thought lasted all of five seconds. Pietro wasn't yappy or rambunctious; he ate and slept in concert with Neal's own schedule. He was well-behaved, quiet most of the time, and if he shed, well, that's what those sticky brushes were for. As for the drooling so common to the breed, Neal had lived with Bugsy the Fart Machine for the better part of four years. Mopping up was a lot easier than living with a tiny dog's outsized flatulence.

It didn't take much for Neal to resign himself to pet ownership and all the responsibilities that came along with that. Because the benefits far outweighed the detriments. As the days grew cooler, it was like having his own personal heater whenever he stopped at a cafe. He'd sit outside with his cappuccino and croissant and the day's newspaper, with Pietro curled up against his feet. There were plenty of restaurants and bars that welcomed them inside, too, and they soon became a familiar sight along the Seine.

Most important of all, Pietro was good company. He didn't complain, he didn't argue, he didn't try to push Neal into things he'd rather not do. And if, on occasion, he looked a little judgmental, Neal felt a spark of a connection back to the world and the people he'd left behind.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**Two months after Neal's death**

Peter sighed and opened his checkbook. He didn't write many checks these days - maybe a half-dozen all year. In fact, the page on the check register listed entries for the last four years. At the top was one made out to Cardello & Sons Memorials. He'd paid for Kate's headstone, even though it was going over an empty grave. It was the least he could do for Neal after he'd witnessed her terrible death.

Now, he was making out another check to the same company, only this time it was for Neal's headstone.

His hand shook as he wrote out the figures, and then they blurred. He couldn't stop the tears. In the quiet of the night, after El had gone to bed, when he was alone with his thoughts, the grief overwhelmed him.

Neal should have been free - he should have been swanning around London or Paris or even here in New York. He should have been happy and smiling and sending him emails, teasing him about his impending fatherhood, about his separation anxiety. Neal should have been showing up, unannounced, for Sunday dinner or just because he missed him.

Neal shouldn't be in a box of ashes set into a cold grave in a cemetery plot in Brooklyn.

Satchmo lumbered over and rested his head on Peter's knee. He stroked the smooth fur, the floppy ears, and thought about that first morning when he came downstairs to find Neal on his couch, having coffee with El, petting his dog, like he had every right to be there.

If he'd known what the next four years would bring, the satisfaction and the anger, the joy and the soul-wrenching grief, would he have done anything differently? Would Neal still be alive if he hadn't listened to his gut and taken that deal? Maybe. Or maybe he would have been killed in prison - gotten caught up in something that he couldn't charm his way out of.

Peter wiped the tears away, like he had so many times in the past two months. There was no point in wishing that he'd made different choices.

His best friend was dead and nothing would ever change that.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**Four Months Post Mortem – The Goddess of the Hunt**

Pietro rarely took notice of other dogs, especially after Neal had taken him in for his little operation. The Saint (or as Neal sometimes thought of him, Saint Peter) was remarkably self-contained, nothing seemed to faze him. He looked at Neal like the sun rose and set in his eyes, but he managed Neal, too. 

Neal didn't mind, since he often missed Peter's managing ways.

But today, Pietro took rather intent notice of a large gray dog tied up outside of his favorite wine shop. He didn't bark at her, but he sniffed her with great thoroughness. The other dog, which might have been a greyhound, was thin to the point of emaciation, and didn't seem to have the strength to object to Pietro's investigation. Her condition and the fact that he'd seen her tied up here for two days worried Neal.

At first, he figured that she belonged to one of the shop's frequent patrons, but this was the third time today that he'd passed by and she was still here. It was getting dark and the cold rain held the promise of impending winter – not the weather for anyone, let alone an underfed dog, to be outside. 

He didn't bother tying Pietro up. The dog knew better than to run. 

Even the command, "Stay", was pointless, since the Saint could be as immovable an object as the Eiffel Tower. And right now, Pietro was leaning against the greyhound and wouldn't move until he was damn well ready to.

Neal ducked into the wine shop and greeted the proprietor. "Robert, good evening."

"Ah, Monsieur Moreau, how are you this evening? And where is your companion?" 

Neal smiled. Robert had taken quite a shine to Pietro, and Neal had a difficult time preventing the shopkeeper from giving the dog treats every time they visited.

"He's outside, keeping a lady company."

"Pardon?"

"The dog that's been tied up outside your shop. Pietro's taken an interest in her."

"Ahh, yes. That poor bitch." Robert shook his head. "I've fed her and given her a little water, but I don't know what to do with her."

"Do you know her owner?"

"No – that is the problem. Yesterday morning, when I arrived, she was there – all tangled in her leash. I got her straightened out, and have been keeping an eye on her, but no one has come to take her home. Last night, I thought about bringing her home with me, but I didn't. I left her some food and a fresh bowl of water and I hoped she'd be gone when I came in this morning."

"So, you don't know who left her?"

"No, and I'm afraid that no one will come to get her and I'll need to call the police. They'll probably send someone to pick her up and take her away. And you know what happens then."

Neal did. It was a sad and terrible fact that few animals in shelters were adopted – especially grown ones. He turned to look at Pietro and the greyhound – his Saint was doing just what the breed was meant to do, provide body heat to the cold and injured traveler. In that moment, Neal made up his mind. "I'm taking her home with me."

Robert smiled. "You are a very good man, Monsieur Moreau." He reached into the cabinet behind the counter and pulled out a bottle of wine. "Such goodness should be rewarded."

Neal eyebrows went up when he read the label – it was a Bordeaux, not from '82, but a fine bottle nonetheless. "Robert, please – this is too much."

"No, I insist. Drink it with someone special."

Neal nodded his head in gracious acceptance. "Thank you, my friend."

Robert bagged the wine and Neal added it to the small tote bag he used for the day's groceries. He didn't have anyone special to share the wine with – at least not yet, and maybe not for a very long while. That thought didn't disturb him so much. He was alone, but not lonely. He had Saint Peter, after all.

Outside, Neal struggled to untie the poor dog's leash, the rain pouring down the back of his collar. His teeth were chattering by the time he got her free and his heart was breaking when she took two steps and collapsed. Pietro nosed at her and the greyhound whimpered.

Neal handed the tote bag to Pietro to carry and picked the dog up. It wasn't far to his apartment and she wasn't that heavy, but with her long legs, she was awkward.

Fifteen minutes later and soaked to the skin, Neal put the dog down to unlock the door to his apartment. She shook herself and once again, collapsed.

Neal carried her into his apartment and set her down on Pietro's bed. "You don't mind, boy? Do you?"

Pietro let go of the grocery bag and woofed at him, clearly stating his approval of Neal's actions.

Without bothering to get out of his wet clothes, Neal examined the dog and was surprised to find, when he took off her leash and collar, there was a name plate on it. _Artemis_.

"Artemis? Is that your name?" 

The greyhound let out a pitiful bark of recognition.

"What happened to you?"

Of course the dog didn't answer. 

Neal fetched a large towel and began to dry her off, taking note of the sagging in her belly and the signs the she'd nursed some puppies not too long ago. There was also a long, lateral scar on her belly – it looked recently healed and thankfully, there were no signs of infection.

"All right – let's get you some food and water, okay?" 

Unlike his first night with Pietro, Neal had the appropriate food for Artemis. He wanted to fill a bowl to the brim, but he knew that if she was starving, she'd gorge and make herself sick. So he set out a small portion of food and a half filled bowl of water and watched. She ate with grace and speed, and drank until the bowl was dry. He refilled it and again, Artemis drank until she was licking the last drops out.

Neal debated giving her more, but worried that she'd end up throwing everything up. Suddenly, he realized that he was cold and wet and he smelled like dirty dog. 

As he passed Pietro, who'd shaken off the water that had beaded up on his heavy coat, he asked, "Keep an eye on her, please?" 

Neal took a quick hot shower, changed into a pair of paint-stained khakis and an equally stained sweatshirt and went back to check on the dogs. Artemis was still curled up in Pietro's bed, her long legs spilling out. Pietro, for his part, had his chin resting on the edge, guarding the other dog as she slept.

"You hungry, boy?"

The Saint twitched an ear, and Neal translated that as "yes", since he'd never turned down a meal yet. 

After feeding Pietro, Neal called the vet and left a message, asking for an emergency appointment tomorrow. Even if the only thing wrong with Artemis was dehydration and malnourishment, she still needed to be checked out. If Neal was lucky, she might even have a microchip. Not that he wanted to give her back – at least not to the people who had so cruelly abandoned her. She might have been stolen and there could be people looking for her.

He put the bottle of wine in the rack, the meat and cheese in the fridge and flopped down on the couch with a sadly crushed _pain chocolate_. He was too tired to fuss and if he didn't eat this, he probably wouldn't eat anything.

A wave of loneliness swamped him. The feeling that hadn't manifested this afternoon when Robert gave him the wine with the direction to share it with someone special hit him full force. It wasn't the longing for a companion – that he could have any time. No, what he missed were the friends he'd left behind, the ones who wept over his body, the ones who spoke so movingly at his funeral and planted flowers at his grave.

He missed Peter – the human Peter. The one who protected him and refused to let him fall. The friend who sacrificed everything for him.

He missed Elizabeth and her no-nonsense approach to life. Her warm acceptance of his presence and her deep love for her husband.

He missed Mozzie. The crazy schemes and the desperate need for love. The odd quotations and the profound wisdom. Mozzie never judged, he was just there – when he could be. Neal thought about sending the message – the one that would bring his oldest friend to his side. He could trust that Moz would keep quiet, but he couldn't trust himself.

There was too much at risk. Woodford was still waiting for trial and his lawyers were challenging every aspect of the government's case. Until he knew for certain that the Panthers were going to stay locked up for a very long time, it was still too risky.

Six months, maybe a little longer, and this would all be done.

Like a child, Neal wiped his greasy fingers on his pants and let out a shuddering sigh. It wasn't supposed to be this hard.

The unfamiliar sound of toenails on the hardwood distracted Neal from his self-indulgent fugue. Artemis was sitting in front of him, her dark liquid eyes staring at him. He reached out and scratched her floppy ears, and in exchange for his caress, she licked his wrist.

Pietro was standing behind her, clearly approving of this overture of friendship.

At that moment, something occurred to Neal and he laughed in pure joy. Artemis was the Greek goddess of the hunt. The Romans called her _Diana_.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**Four months after Neal's death**

Peter looked up when someone knocked. It was Diana. "Hey, Peter – I have some updates on the Mortensen fraud case." She held out the folder.

He took it and carefully placed it on his desk. Other than the Panthers, this was the last of the cases that he and Neal had worked on. Once they wrapped this up, it would be like a final door closing.

"You're not going to read it?"

Peter shrugged. "I'll get to it."

"You doing okay?" Diana shut the door and sat down. "No, scratch that. You're _not_ doing okay."

Peter shrugged again, unable to summon any energy to muster any pretense. "I'll be all right, I guess."

Diana offered, her voice filled with empathy, "I can promise you it does get better. It just takes time."

Peter looked at her, not quite sure where this advice was coming from.

"Charlie, my bodyguard. I was sixteen when he took a bullet meant for me. I watched him bleed out."

"Right. I knew that." Peter fiddled with his pen, unable to meet Diana's eyes. "It all feels wrong. Like I'd missed something – some clue about what Neal was planning. I should have never left him alone with Keller."

"It's not your fault, Peter. Whatever Neal was doing, it was his choice. You worked with him for almost four years; you know that you couldn't stop him when he was intent on something. That was the nature of your relationship."

"I know – but he was so close to having his freedom. Why did he take that risk?"

Diana shook her head. "I don't know. Keller's dead. And unless you can track down Mozzie, you'll never know."

"And somehow, even if I could find Mozzie, I don't think he'd tell me – even if he knew."

"I never thought I'd say it, but I miss the little guy."

Peter smiled, but the expression felt wrong. "Yeah, I do, too."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**Six Months Post Mortem - A Bird in the Hand**

It had felt strange to leave the dogs behind, but he had an appointment with the trustees at the Louvre. He was presenting the first iteration of the new security system – and while he'd often brought Peter and Diana with him on his consultations, today wouldn't have been a good day to show up with the dogs.

He couldn't wait to get home and tell them that the trustees had signed off on this first phase. Peter would look at him with deep satisfaction, as if he never doubted that Neal would be successful. Diana, however, would be a little more reserved, but she'd come around. Just in time for her post-dinner treat. The three of them would then cuddle on the couch while Neal ran through the specs, double-checking with manufacturers and software companies, making certain that everything worked just the way he promised it would.

Even though it had taken Neal a few months to stop calling Peter Pietro, he'd immediately changed Artemis to Diana, since the poor dog probably had nothing good to associate with that name. The vet had told him that all the signs were there that she'd been a breeder at a puppy mill. Even though the greyhound was only three years old, she'd already had at least three litters. It was a miracle that her owner had bothered to have her spayed – probably because she'd had problems with her last litter. It was even more surprising that he hadn't simply put her down once her breeding was over. Maybe she'd been sold as a pet to someone who ultimately decided they didn't want her – which was why she'd been abandoned on a Parisian street.

She and Peter bonded from that first night. The Saint still looked at him like the sun rose and fell in his eyes, but Diana brought out all of his protective instincts. He made sure she ate first and finished everything in her bowl. When they went out, no one approached Diana without Peter's thorough vetting.

Neal's reputation – the future of his family – was riding on the successful implementation of this proposed security system. He had won a small contract with Cartier, and another with Chopard, and others soon followed – all small jobs at the retail operations level. They paid well, but until Neal proved himself with this massive contract with the Louvre, there would be no repeat business.

Tonight, though, he was going to celebrate. Not just with the very excellent _homard au beurre_ – lobster in butter sauce with artichokes and chanterelle mushrooms that he was going to make. But with a special bottle of wine, too. He wanted Champagne: Veuve Clicquot or Tattinger or maybe even Perrier-Jouet. And there was even some hand-chopped sirloin for his companions – they deserved to celebrate as much as he did.

Neal went into his favorite wine shop and was shocked. Robert looked like he was about to cry, and from the back of the store, there was someone cursing. Loudly, with great relish. Then the cursing stopped, only to be followed by a deep voice intoning parts of a Latin mass. Then the cursing started again.

"What's going on?" It sounded like a scene from The Exorcist.

"My great uncle died."

Neal blinked at the non sequitur. "I'm very sorry."

"He was a priest, a good and holy man. Much venerated by his parish."

Not knowing what to say, Neal just nodded.

"As a priest, he took a vow of poverty – everything he had belonged to the Church."

"Okay."

"Everything except Mozart."

"Mozart?" Neal repeated the name with a pang. Those two syllables were so evocative.

But Robert didn't notice. He just wrung his hands. "My great-uncle had a parrot."

Neal began to put the pieces together.

"And I am his only living relative."

"So, you inherited your great-uncle's parrot."

"Yes – the Church did not want it."

"You could sell it."

Robert sighed. "It is most … voluable."

More Latin – which Neal recognized as the Great Doxology – was followed by a stream of rather inventive curses. "I guess that's the parrot? But who's saying Mass to it? Did the parish send someone to deliver it?"

"No one – that's just the parrot. It's – what's the word – schizophrenic. It says the Holy Mass and then it spews utter filth. I can't keep that creature near my family – my son and my daughter would hear that. And my wife swears that if I bring the bird into my house, she'll make it into soup. Who will want to buy such a bird?"

Other than a Lenny Bruce-wannabe, Neal couldn't think of anyone who'd be interested.

"Monsieur Victor, you would do me such a great favor…"

Neal shook his head. "I already have two companions."

Robert countered, "The parrot is old – my uncle bought it in the '70's – when he was a missionary in Africa. It probably won't live much longer."

"I know nothing about keeping birds."

"Please, Monsieur Victor, I can't let the creature die and I can't keep it here. Mozart loved my uncle and my uncle loved Mozart. You must understand what that's like. Your Pierre and your Artemis – they are important to you and you have made arrangements for them in case something happens, no?"

Actually, Neal hadn't and he filed the idea away. The problem was, he had no one – at least no one in Paris – who would be willing to care for two large dogs. Maybe when everything in New York was settled, he'd make arrangements then.

"Please take Mozart – it is a good bird. It just misses my uncle, and the shop – it's too much chaos for a bird. That's why Mozart is being so difficult."

Neal could feel his resolve weakening.

"I will make it worth your while." Robert unlocked the temperature controlled cabinet where he kept his very best, and most expensive vintages. Not one, but two bottles of Pessac-Leognan Haut-Brion 1982 were placed on the counter – each one retailed for over a thousand Euros.

"Robert – no. This isn't right."

"No, it is exactly right. You will sell these beautiful bottles and use the money to care for Mozart." Robert reached for another bottle, a Mouton-Rothschild 2002. "This is for your own enjoyment."

Neal sighed and couldn't help but appreciate the irony; he was getting paid with extraordinary wines to take care of a foul-mouthed bird named Mozart. It was only fitting. So he nodded.

"Ah, my friend – you will be rewarded in heaven. Come, let me introduce you."

Robert took him into the back, where Mozart was entertaining himself. The bird was much smaller than Neal expected, about the size of a large squirrel. It was gray with a large black beak and bright yellow eyes. It looked at him with intelligent curiosity.

"Here – it likes apples." Robert had sliced a chunk off of a piece of fruit. Neal took it and held it out to the bird. To his astonishment, the creature hopped onto his fist and carefully plucked the apple from his fingers, consuming it with great delicacy.

Neal was charmed. "Hello, Mozart."

_"Dominus vobiscum, you asshole."_

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**Six months after Neal's death**

It had been a grueling week. The Pink Panthers' trial was about to begin, after months of legal maneuvering. Peter was scheduled to testify this week and the U.S. Attorney had rightfully insisted on intensive pre-trial preparation. 

Which only served to open the wounds that had barely started to heal.

He was invited to take part in the government's trial strategy sessions and it was unbearably difficult to listen to the attorneys discuss how much Neal's involvement with the Bureau should be revealed. Finally, the lead attorney looked to him to cast the deciding vote.

"You knew Caffrey the best. How much of a ticking time bomb is his reputation going to be?"

Peter gritted his teeth and forced himself to give a measured reply. "Neal Caffrey was the finest asset the Bureau had. In cases with his direct involvement, we had a ninety-seven percent conviction rating."

"We know that, but Caffrey was still a criminal."

Peter knew he was skirting the truth, but Neal's reputation was something he could still protect. "No – he was a _reformed_ criminal. He served his time and then some. He had opportunities to run – "

"Which he did, didn't he?"

Peter growled, "Only to help catch one of the FBI's most wanted. Look – Neal Caffrey came to us when he had been given the opportunity to join the Panthers. He was eager to help put them behind bars. We've already gone over that."

The attorney nodded, but added, "And made his own release contingent on your success. The defense has made motions to get completed records of Caffrey's involvement with the Bureau. We've had to turn over some of them."

Peter knew that, and it still stuck in his throat that innocent people might be exposed.

"We still need to know who 'Confidential Informant Number 2' is."

"No, you don't." There was no way he was throwing Mozzie to the wolves. "He had no direct involvement with the Panthers and there's no reason to bring him up in direct examination."

"Why don't you let us do our jobs, Agent Burke?"

Peter clamped his mouth shut, making it clear just how much he disagreed with this possible line of questioning.

The attorney sighed, realizing that Peter's cooperation was wearing thin. "Can you at least tell us what his role _was_?"

"Logistic support, planning. He helped Caffrey from time to time. Which meant he assisted the Bureau, but always in an unofficial capacity. I don't even know his real name."

"But do you know for certain that he wasn't involved in the Panthers?"

"Yes." Peter didn't elaborate, wanting to end this line of questioning as quickly and neatly as possible.

The attorneys moved on from Mozzie's involvement, but Peter was sure that they'd come back to him eventually. They peppered him with questions about Neal, preparing him for what would be a grueling cross-examination by the Panthers' attorneys – particularly Woodford's.

As they were finishing up, one of the junior attorneys commented, "You know, it's probably a good thing that Caffrey's dead."

Peter wanted to tear the man's tongue out, but restrained himself. "Why the hell would you even think that?"

The guy held up his hands in defense. "Just that the Panthers have a bad reputation when it comes to letting anyone who could talk live – Woodford especially so. One of the reasons why they've been so hard to catch is that anyone who even thinks of betraying them ends up dead. Did you know that Woodford was arrested three times in Europe before he took charge of the Panthers, and each time he walked because the government's star witnesses ended up dead? So did their families."

Peter froze, suddenly terrified for Elizabeth, for his unborn son. "And Woodford knows that I'm an FBI agent."

"I doubt that Woodford would come after you and yours – Caffrey brought you in, the only threats he's made have been against his corpse. Like I said, it's a good thing he's dead. Otherwise, he'd be spending the rest of this life in WitSec. Probably working in a carwash or flipping burgers in Lower Bumfuck, Idaho."

The lead attorney on the case tried to mollify Peter. "Look, if it makes you feel safer, we'll have a security detail for you."

"For my wife. I can handle myself. Until Woodford and the crew are sentenced, I want someone watching my wife twenty-four seven. Surveillance on the house, someone with her when she goes out without me. She's eight and a half months pregnant, damn it."

"Okay, okay. I'll get right on it."

Peter looked at his watch; it was a quarter to six. "I'm done. I have to go pick my wife up – we have childbirth classes tonight. Come tomorrow morning, seven AM, I expect to find a surveillance vehicle in front of my house."

The other man nodded.

Peter left in a rush, not because he was going to be late, but because he was so angry – at the U.S. Attorney's Office and at himself. Why the hell did it take six months for him to realize that Woodford and the Panthers were a threat to him?

At least Neal had done an excellent job of keeping Mozzie out of it, because there was no way he could protect him. Moz's own paranoia and his disdain for bureaucracy would make that impossible. Peter remembered the last time he'd tried to safeguard him, and smiled sadly at the memory.

He could still feel Neal standing next to him as Elizabeth took a picture. He could still hear her asking, _"So who's Newman and who's Redford?"_

If he had to pick one of the best moments of his friendship with Neal – it would be that one. They were so perfectly in sync, so absolutely certain that each had the other's back. He trusted Neal, and Neal put his faith in him.

He'd never have that moment again.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**Eight Months Post Mortem - Planetary Furballs**

Neal leaned back from his desk and sighed in satisfaction. His books were balanced, he had plenty of money in the bank, and his business – a legitimate occupation that he could be proud of – was flourishing. The Louvre job was going very well, and the trustees were making noises about releasing information about the new security contract to the press. He'd finally gotten some repeat business with Cartier – to upgrade their flagship store here in Paris; and there were other clients, too. Prominent art galleries, a few high-end boutiques, even a couple of private homes. There was something about a man in a well-cut suit who attended every consultation with a pair of extremely well-behaved and very large dogs that screamed "trustworthy".

Little did they know what went on at home. Not that Peter and Diana were anything less than well-behaved; it was Mozzie who was the agent of chaos. He'd brought the voluble African Gray home and life had never been the same again. Mozart became Mozzie within a few hours, which wasn't surprising. 

It wasn't just Neal's need to rebuild the family he'd left behind; the similarities between the parrot he'd adopted and his old friend were too great to ignore.

The human Mozzie didn't have the parrot's salty vocabulary, but to Neal's astonished delight, once he was less stressed, his new companion seemed to have a great fondness for spouting Einstein, Shakespeare, and Jerry Lewis at surprisingly appropriate moments.

In their own quiet way, the dogs had expressed a certain amount of skepticism at Mozzie's introduction into their home. It was almost as if they didn't trust the bird's influence on Neal. Or that just might have been a combination of his own wishful thinking and anthropomorphism. Peter warmed up to Mozzie first, soon letting the parrot perch on his back for a little while. Eventually, Moz's favorite perch became Peter's head. The Saint accepted Mozzie's shenanigans, up to a point. When the parrot became too much to deal with, Peter would shake his head, sending both bird and strands of drool flying.

Diana, on the other hand, had little tolerance for Moz. The one time he tried to use her as a perch, she snapped at him - neatly taking off two tail feathers. From the safety of his cage, Moz recited Easter Mass, punctuated with Kiswahili invective.

In a way, it felt like old times.

But right now, the dogs were snoozing in the patch of winter sunlight and Mozzie was in his cage, singing to himself. It sounded like an aria from _The Marriage of Figaro_. Quite fitting, really.

It was a few weeks into the New Year and the days were still far too short. Winters in Paris were mostly wretched, wet but rarely cold enough for snow. At least they were thankfully brief. It rained steadily from November on, and Neal hated to admit it, but he missed the snow. Even the filthy sludge that lingered for weeks after the snow ended. He couldn't help himself and routinely checked the weather in Manhattan - it was another year of record snowfalls and bitter cold. Too many winters - four in prison and then four shackled to the FBI - he'd spent longing for milder climates. For the sun and the blue skies of the Mediterranean, or the South Seas. Instead, he had a view of a city skyline cloaked in perpetual gray. Not unlike what he had now, except it was the end of January and in a few weeks, warmer winds would usher in the famous springtime in Paris.

Neal thought about heading out, maybe down to the local cafe. He used to be a social creature, but the past few months, he'd drawn into himself. Maybe it was the winter, maybe it was the knowledge that his friends still mourned him and there was a new life who bore the name he still called himself in the privacy of his thoughts.

June had paid a visit to the Burkes two weeks after Elizabeth gave birth. She had delivered a christening gift and taken some pictures - which she'd sent to him. The baby was a handsome blob, as two week old babies often were. It might have been too early to tell, but he had his mother's dimples and his father's smile. It took every ounce of willpower that Neal had not to send a gift, not to hop on an airplane and go back to New York and greet his namesake in person.

But he couldn't. The Panthers' trial was under way, and he'd put everyone in danger by showing up alive, undoing everything he'd work so hard to prevent.

June sent regular updates. Baby Neal at a month, at six weeks, at nine weeks. He was beautiful and healthy, and Neal wished with all his heart that he could be there, watching him grow, instead of living for a handful of photos every few weeks.

Neal sighed. There was no point in brooding. He made a general announcement to his companions, "Okay, guys - I'm heading out for dinner." Mozzie interrupted his aria to tell him to go fuck himself. Diana and Peter didn't bother to comment.

He put on his hat, grabbed an umbrella, and opened the door, only to find Charlotte, the woman who lived on the floor below him, about to knock on his door.

At first, she seemed flustered, then she shook her head and chuckled. "Ah, Victor, either you're psychic or my footsteps have gotten very heavy." Then she noticed his hat and the umbrella and frowned. "You are on your way out. Perhaps we can talk in the morning?"

"Just heading down for a bite to eat. Maybe you'd like to join me?"

Charlotte didn't hesitate. "You know, that does sound nice."

Neal held out his arm and escorted her back to her apartment to retrieve her coat, before heading to the bistro at the corner. The evening, which had been so lackluster, took on a warm glow. Charlotte reminded him of June, and for that reason alone, Neal had cultivated a delicate friendship with her. She was probably a decade younger than his former landlady and partner in the occasional crime, in her mid-sixties, rather than mid-seventies. In the light from the street lamps, she looked a decade younger than that. 

But she had the same elegance, the same sense of style, and best of all, the same conspiratorial sense of fun. He invited her up for coffee a few times and she especially enjoyed conversing with Mozzie, exchanging all sorts of insults in a variety of languages. In fact, she was the one who taught the bird how to curse in Kiswahili, a language she'd learned when she'd worked as a teacher in a small village in Tanzania thirty years ago.

They settled at a table and decided to split a bottle of wine.

Neal was curious as to why Charlotte had come to his apartment, but didn't press. She'd get to it eventually.

She asked about the dogs, he asked her about her grandchildren. Neal mentioned a new exhibit at the Musée Marmottan Monet, and Charlotte mentioned that she was a member, and would he like to go with her? By the time they'd reduced their shared order of _moules marinières_ , the specialty of this particular bistro, to a bowl of shells and fragrant broth, Neal couldn't contain his curiosity any longer.

Neal wiped his mouth and finished the last of his wine, and asked, "So, what did you want to talk to me about?"

Charlotte sighed. "I need a favor."

Neal smiled and rashly promised, "Anything."

"I've told you, my eldest daughter, Claudette, is about to give birth again."

Neal nodded and tried not to feel the ache in his chest. "And?"

"My granddaughter, Simone, has two cats."

Neal could almost hear the train of thought barreling down the tracks.

"Claudette is worried about having cats in the house where there's a newborn."

"You know it's a myth that cats will steal a baby's breath."

"I know, and Claudette knows she's being illogical. But she lost a baby to crib death two years ago…"

"I'm sorry." Neal rested his hand atop Charlotte's. 

"So, even though she knows she's being silly, she also has reason to worry. Simone was shattered when her baby brother died – that's one of the reasons why they got the kittens – to help the child get past her grief."

"Won't taking the cats away from her be cruel?"

"Well, the plan is to find them a temporary home. Six months, a year at the most - just until the dangerous time passes. And put them with someone that Simone can visit. They live in Montmartre, just a few Metro stops away."

"Why don't you take them?"

"I would, but you know that I'm out of town so much."

Charlotte spent about half her time in Paris and the rest of the time with her other daughter, who lived in Arles. Neal watered her plants and checked on her apartment during the weeks she was absent. "And I guess you can't keep taking the cats with you."

"Oh, no, certainly not. Suzette's husband is very allergic."

 _Of course he is._ "Very well, ask me."

"Victor – would you please consider this?"

"You do know I have two large dogs."

"Who are exceedingly polite and well-behaved. They wouldn't dream of hurting another animal."

Peter might not, but Neal wasn't so sure about Diana. Her patience was limited. "The cats are going to freak when they see the dogs."

"I don't think so. Claudette and her family have a wolfhound – and I don't think dogs come any bigger than that. The cats love him."

Neal played his last card. "Mozart will not be happy to have to fight off two cats. He's accustomed to his freedom during the day. He'll be a very tempting target. If he gets stressed, it's going to High Mass and bad language until my ears bleed."

Charlotte had considered that, too. "Bancroft and Hughes are city cats. They wouldn't know what to do with a bird if they caught it. I think they're frightened of pigeons."

"Bancroft and Hughes?"

She shrugged, the perfect Gallic gesture. "Simone named them. She was – at the time – very interested in astronomy. I think one's named for a comet and the other for a lunar crater, or some such nonsense. Don't ask me to make sense of an eight year old's brain."

Neal sat there, trying to think of any other reason to reject this request. But all he could think was Peter, Diana, Mozzie. Hughes and Bancroft. The only ones that were missing were Clinton and Elizabeth. Then he'd have the full set.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**Eight months after Neal's death**

"Hey hon, how are you?" 

_"The same as I was a half-hour ago. Just fine."_

"And Neal? The baby's okay?"

 _"Peter, everything is just fine. Relax. Enjoy yourself."_ With those instructions, El hung up on him.

Peter sighed, knowing that he was being ridiculously overprotective. But this was the first time he'd been away overnight since the baby was born and he couldn't stop thinking of all the things that could go wrong. Not that El was having problems - the birth had been almost ridiculously easy. Her labor had lasted just six hours. Neal was a healthy baby, he had perfect Apgar scores, he ate like a little piggy, slept like a log, cried hardly ever.

Peter found himself holding his breath because everything was so perfect.

His therapist told him this was normal - not only because he was a fairly late-in-life new father, but the sudden and violent loss of his closest friend made him naturally distrustful and wary. Insecure.

He'd started seeing a therapist about three months ago, initially to placate El, who'd been worried that he was getting too caught up in his grief. She didn't want him to miss out on what was going to be the happiest part of their lives, and Peter knew that she was right. He couldn't shake the emptiness, he couldn't stop blaming himself, and he knew that he couldn't continue that way.

Neal was gone and he had to learn to accept it.

The therapist was good - even if it seemed that she spent most of their forty minutes listening to him extol the virtues of the late Neal Caffrey. At least for the first few weeks. At some point, Peter stopped polishing Neal's memory and started telling her about all the times that Neal had angered him. A lot of the pain from the time after he'd gotten off for Pratt's murder started spilling out, and for a while it felt like he hated Neal.

But that passed, too, and finally Peter started opening up about his own feelings. The loss, the aching sense of failure. How, despite all the wonderful things happening, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was always one step away from disaster. That it could all be taken from him in an instant, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

He was still working through that, but it was getting better. When he received the invitation to Kyle Bancroft's retirement dinner in D.C., he mentioned it to El and he let her talk him into attending. She would be just fine for one night on her own.

Which didn't stop him from calling every half-hour or so. Peter knew he was being ridiculous - it wasn't as if he didn't go to work every day and he certainly didn't check in with that level of frequency. Today, though, he'd already called six times. It was a little after four and the train was just pulling into Union Station. The party was at the Willard Hotel in downtown D.C., and scheduled to start around six. 

If El hadn't been so adamant that he get away - even just overnight - Peter would have gone to the party and taken a late train home. But this was a test, a chance to prove to himself that life wasn't a catastrophe waiting to happen. That he could relax his vigilance.

It was a short trip from the station to the hotel and Peter checked in, took a quick shower and dressed. He still had an hour or so before the party was to start and instead of calling, he sent El a quick text.

To his delight, she responded with a selfie of her and the baby, who was all pink and rosy and so beautiful it shook Peter to the soul. 

Just as Elizabeth had. In the moments after giving birth, when she told him that his son's name was Neal, not Andrew – as they planned. For months, Peter had a dozen conversations with El about naming their son Neal, but they all took place in his head. They hadn't even settled on a name until a week before she gave birth, and when El suggested Andrew simply because she liked the name, Peter agreed. 

_Andrew Burke_ sounded good, it was a strong name, but Peter couldn't help but feel that _Neal Burke_ sounded even better.

Looking at his beautiful family, Peter didn't hesitate to call home. El answered on the first ring, and Peter didn't let her say anything except hello.

"Hon, I'm not calling to check in with you."

_"Then why are you calling – didn't you get my reply?"_

"I did – and I wanted to tell you that I love you. I wanted to hear your voice."

El didn't respond right away, and when she did, it wasn't what he was expecting to hear. "Are you all right? Do you want to come home? Maybe I pushed you too fast."

Peter swallowed against the love and the worry he heard in his wife's voice. "No, I'm okay. I really am. Just seeing the picture of you and Neal, it made my heart sing and I wanted to tell you that I love you. That's it."

_"Oh, hon. I love you, so very much."_

"How's Neal?" At that moment, his son chose to join the conversation, letting out a demanding squall.

_"Hungry."_

"Then I'll let you go. I'll send you a text when I'm back in my room and you can call me. It shouldn't be too late."

Peter could hear El unbuttoning her blouse, the scratchy riff of Velcro as she opened her nursing bra, and finally the sound of his son suckling. _"That sounds perfect, love you."_

"Love you, too." Peter hung up and felt something that had been so elusive for so long, seep into his bones – peace.

That peace was broken when a calendar alert signaled on his phone. It was six o'clock and time to party – if an FBI retirement dinner could really be classified as a party.

Fitting the stature of an Assistant Director, the dinner was held in the hotel's largest ballroom – there were at least thirty tables set up. Peter snagged his place card and hoped he was seated with at least one person he knew.

And he was – Reese Hughes was holding court with a few agents who looked to be of the same vintage. His old friend and mentor smiled when he approached. Reese did the usual introductions and the other men hung around for a couple of minutes before dispersing.

Reese gave him a thorough and piercing look. "How are you?" He and Reese occasionally met for coffee, and it was Reese who'd recommended the therapist. He'd been a patient of hers for a year or so after his wife had passed away.

He answered honestly, "Doing better." 

His old boss nodded sharply and his lips thinned. "What a terrible, terrible waste."

"Yeah." Peter looked out into the distance, not seeing the fancy chandelier or the hundreds of men and women in suits, but his lost friend. It still hurt, but the pain wasn't quite so crippling.

"Sorry. I just …" Reese grimaced and wiped his mouth. "Maybe I need some therapy myself."

In an effort to lighten the mood, Peter pulled out his phone. "Or perhaps some baby pictures?"

Reese smiled. "Of course."

Peter narrated the sequence, knowing that he sounded like an idiot, but this was his boy – and of course he was a prodigy.

People stopped by, most of them were agents Peter knew. Some congratulated him on his new baby, but most expressed their condolences for Neal. Peter had long since known that his CI was something of a legend in the FBI. Hadn't Phil Kramer referred to them as the Gotham City's finest cop and robber? He thanked everyone and couldn't wait for the evening to end. 

The dinner was interminable; indifferent food punctuated by boring speeches extolling the career of the retiree. Unlike Reese's retirement dinner – a rollicking party that Peter and several friends had paid for – this was a government reception. Which meant no alcohol to dull the pain.

Finally, Bancroft gave his speech. Peter had always like the man, respected him as a law enforcement agent, and thought him an excellent administrator, but he wasn't the most sparkling of public speakers, and Peter's mind began to drift. He could almost hear Neal's amusing commentary on the banality of his speech.

A burst of applause shook him out of his day dreams. The room lighting brightened and servers started distributing coffee and cake. When Bancroft came over, Peter stood.

"Congratulations, sir."

"For what – surviving thirty-five years of terminal bureaucracy?" Bancroft smiled to ease the sting of his reply. "Good to see you, Peter."

"Thanks." He waited for the inevitable.

"Sorry about Caffrey."

"Thank you." There was nothing else he could say.

Bancroft turned to leave, but then turned back. "For the record – when you made the request to cut his sentence short, I was the one who recommended keeping him on. I liked Caffrey – a lot. I had even hoped that he'd make a real career with the FBI. When he pushed for an early release, I – " Bancroft frowned and shook his head. "I let my disappointment get in the way of justice. And now he's dead. I didn't pull the trigger, but if I hadn't been such an ass, he might still be alive. I'm sorry."

Peter stood there, stunned. Bancroft nodded once, sharply, and walked away. 

"Come on." Reese tugged at him. "There's a bar around the corner."

Peter resisted. "Getting drunk won't change anything."

"No, but I could use some company. It's going to be a long night."

"We could just go home – the trains are still running."

Reese sighed. "Nothing like being a new father to make you even more responsible than ever." He tugged on him again. "Come on, let's raise a glass to Neal. To the one who's gone and to the one who's just arrived."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**Ten Months Post Mortem - Hippity-Hop**

The Louvre job was coming along very well and Neal mentally patted himself on the back. The museum's trustees had released the next stage of funding - over a million Euros - now that his proof of concept had met their expectations. Neal himself conducted the demonstration; a penetration testing scenario where he played the part of a determined and clever thief trying to break into a gallery via the roof, underground tunnels, through windows. What made the demonstration so effective was that Neal was able to gain access to the interior in sections where he hadn't installed the new security system, but was stymied by his own work. It was really rather brilliant, if he had to say so himself.

The money helped, although he didn't make a whole lot of profit - at least not yet. But he had enough to keep his family well taken care of. Peter was a big dog, now fully grown, and he required vast quantities of fresh food and high quality pet food. Diana was more of a delicate eater and Neal worried that she didn't eat enough. But the vet assured him that she was the perfect weight for her size and breed. Greyhounds that didn't race tended to a more sedentary lifestyle, and needed far fewer calories. 

Moz was a pain. Neal couldn't figure out how a bird raised by a simple parish priest developed such a finicky palate. In addition to fresh vegetables and very expensive pellet food, he loved apples, but not just any old apples. They had to be Rajkas from the Czech Republic or Italian Annurcas or German Clivias, which were only available at certain times of the year. And heaven forbid there were millet seeds mixed in with his sunflower seeds. Moz loved both, but not in the same dish. He'd pitch a fit. For hours at a stretch, Neal would be assaulted with the Requiem Mass, and each verse punctuated by high-volume instructions to go fuck himself.

At least the cats were normal. Normal, that is, for cats that like to sleep with dogs. To Neal's shock, both Hughes, a compact gray tabby with piercing blue eyes, and Bancroft, a small tortoise-shell with floppy ears, had fallen in love with Diana. And vice versa. They slept in a pile, one tucked against her belly, the other one under her chin. When they ate, she stood guard. Because as much as Peter was a Saint Bernard with a strong moral code, he was still a dog. Food on the floor regardless of which species it was intended for, was an opportunity that should never be passed up. 

The cats were affectionate and well-behaved, despite their tendency to go a little nuts just as Neal was trying to fall asleep. They'd race around the room for the sheer joy of disturbing his rest and when Neal would get up to see what the problem was, or more likely, to pick up something they'd knocked over, he'd find the pair of them draped over Diana, pretending that nothing had happened.

Peter would look at him with a touch of blame in those deep, dark eyes. _You brought them here, you deal with it._

At least the pair wouldn't be permanent additions to his life. Almost two months ago, Charlotte's daughter had given birth to a healthy baby girl. The child was thriving and her older sister was happy, except that she wanted her cats back. Her parents agreed that once the baby was eight months old, the cats could come home. 

Neal might miss the felines, but he wouldn't miss the heightened level of chaos they brought into his life. At least they didn't torment Mozzie. In fact, they really were quite terrified of the bird, who seemed to take great delight in that. He'd perch on Peter's head and make a variety of different noises, sending the cats into a frenzy of exploration. They never seemed to realize that the bird was the one making the sounds.

At the moment, from his cage, Mozzie was doing his best buzzing-fly impression and Bancroft was slinking across the floor looking for the insect. Neal half-wanted to join in the fun and take out his laser pointer to further torment the furball, except he had a feeling that Peter would disapprove. 

He occasionally wondered if the Saint had been named something other than Pietro when he had come into his life, would he have had such a strong effect on him and the decisions he made.

Thank goodness he had a cleaning lady who loved animals as much as he did. Greta didn't mind the dogs, the cats, or the bird. She had beasts of her own - three Flemish Giant rabbits, two standard poodles and a Persian cat. She often told him that she packaged the fur they left behind and sold it to specialty yarn spinners, and that he should have her do the same. Neal just said she was free to do what she wanted with the content of her vacuum bags.

He was expecting her, and locked his office door. That was the one animal-free zone in his apartment. In the early days, Peter was welcome to keep him company, but when Neal found a puddle of drool decorating some of the classified blueprints he'd been entrusted with, he had to harden his heart and keep all the beasts away. Given the sensitive nature of his work, he needed to take precautions, putting in a cipher lock that even the human Mozzie couldn't pick - or at least couldn't pick without the aid of a master social engineer.

Greta, a middle-aged German woman who'd immigrated in the seventies, and almost stereotypically efficient, arrived on the dot. When he let her in, Neal found her burdened with a large animal carrier.

"Danke, Herr Victor. Here, take this." She handed him the carrier and Neal had a terrible feeling that he just accepted ownership of whatever was inside of it.

Neal hefted the carrier - its contents was heavier that he expected - and muttered, "This better not be what I think it is." He set the crate down and peered inside. A rather large, and exceedingly disapproving visage stared back at him. Peter lumbered over to investigate.

"Greta, why have you brought one of your rabbits with you?"

"Ah, Herr Victor - Mr. Clinton isn't one of mine. He belonged to a friend and he needs a good home - my friend is sick and can't care of him anymore. This place would be perfect."

"That might be, but in case you haven't noticed, I have all the animals I can handle." But Neal could already feel his resolve crumbling. 

Greta leaned over and flicked open the crate door. The rabbit leaned out, cautiously inspecting the new environment. "He is trained to use a litter box."

"But won't he chew on everything? You complain that your rabbits love to chew on the wires."

Greta stuck her hands in her pockets. "Mr. Clinton is better behaved than mine are. He is named after a very great American President."

Neal chuckled to himself. _A president who was so well-behaved, he couldn't keep it in his pants._

"You are my last resort, Herr Victor. I can't keep him - my girls are very territorial and a boy rabbit makes them unhappy. Even though he is fixed."

"I didn't know you could even get rabbits fixed."

"You do if you don't want baby rabbits every few months." Greta shrugged. "I thought a rabbit would make you happy. It would complete your family." Mr. Clinton hopped out of his carrier, sniffed at the magazines on the coffee table and then hopped onto the floor. Hughes and Bancroft came over to investigate and backed away. Neal couldn't hold back a smile. The rabbit was half again as big as both felines put together. Peter crouched down and touched noses with Mr. Clinton, who put his front paws on the dog's dewlaps. It looked like the two animals were kissing.

The sound of toe nails clacking on the parquet floors signaled Diana's approach and Neal became concerned. Greyhounds chased rabbits - albeit mechanical ones - around the race track. Not that Diana had ever been a racing dog, but rabbits were natural prey for coursing hounds.

Except that Diana didn't seem at all interested in chasing this particular rabbit. Instead, she licked him from nose to tail, and sat down. Mr. Clinton was now surrounded by dogs and he seemed rather content. His huge ears - each as long as the span of one of Neal's hands - were sort of flopped over, one up, one down.

"There, you see, Herr Victor. Mr. Clinton likes the dogs. The cats won't bother him, and I'm sure Herr Mozart will be happy to welcome him into the household."

Neal glared at his housekeeper. "You will come and clean twice a week. I will pay you, of course, but this new addition is going to make a mess, we both know that."

Greta nodded. "Certainly. I will come on Mondays and Fridays and your apartment will sparkle. You'll never know that Mr. Clinton is here."

At that moment, Mozzie flew out of his cage and landed on Peter's head to do his own inspection of the newcomer. Neal sighed and waited for the inevitable. Clinton the Rabbit seemed to be the strong, silent type, but Mozart the Parrot was anything but. And to prove the point, the bird welcomed Clinton into the household, _"Mysterium fidei sit, now go fuck yourself."_

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**Ten months after Neal's death**

"You wanted to see me, Peter?"

"Yes. Come in, shut the door."

Clinton took a seat, but he looked worried. "This can't be good news."

Peter laughed and shook his head. "Oh, you're wrong. It's very good news."

"My request was approved?"

Peter nodded and handed Clinton a folder. "Congratulations on your very first task force."

The other agent took a deep breath and gave Peter a rueful smile. "It feels like it was just yesterday that I talked my way into _your_ very first task force."

Peter remembered the brash young agent who wouldn't take no for an answer. "What were you, two weeks off of your probationary assignment?"

"Yeah. I had a set of brass ones back then."

"You still do."

Clinton looked through the folder. "Thank you for everything, Peter. For taking me on, for trusting me to get the job done. For getting me out of the van."

They both chuckled at the last. "You earned it."

Clinton stood to leave, but he paused. "If I could, I'd thank Neal, too. Without him, who knows where'd I'd be."

Peter shook his head. "You'd be right where you are, right now. A stellar agent with a brilliant career ahead of you."

"Yeah. Maybe. Still miss him, though."

"So do I. Every single day."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**Post Mortem One Year – The man, not the con.**

It was a little before midnight when the text came through. Neal read it three times before the reality of its contents set in.

_Panthers sentenced to life in prison. Woodford going to Supermax in Colorado_

It was over. 

He sat on his couch, Clinton on his lap, Peter stretched out across his feet, Diana sleeping next to him. The cats were dozing in their basket and Mozzie was in his cage, softly singing to himself.

Life was … perfect.

Except that it really wasn't. His friends – his human friends – still thought he was dead. They still grieved for him.

He'd prepared for this moment, even though he feared it might never come. But it had, and there was one more step he had to take to make things right.

Neal dialed a number, and waited for the call to go through. It seemed to take far too long, but maybe it was simply because he was calling New York. A few seconds later, someone picked up. The voice that answered was familiar and beloved. _"Hello, Neal."_

"I got your text."

_"I figured. Everything's ready. I have the wine bottle, and I'm going to see Mozzie this evening. I'll give him your letter and make sure he doesn't fall apart."_

"What about the newspaper?" Two weeks ago, the Louvre released the announcement of their new security upgrade, and it had made the news.

_"I can give it to Moz, or I can take care of it myself."_

"No – let Mozzie do it. You shouldn't be hanging around shipping container yards in Long Island City."

_"Oh, Neal – I've been in far worse places for far worse reasons."_

"June…"

_"If it will make you happy, however, I'll let Moz do the honors."_

"It will. And thank you for everything. I don't know how I would have managed without you."

June laughed. _"Yeah, well, I was happy to help."_

She hadn't been in on his plans – not from the start. Like Peter, like Mozzie, June truly believed he'd died. But two weeks after his death – after his cremation and whatever funeral they'd given him – he had sent her a letter, explaining what he'd done and why he'd done it. And he'd given her his cell phone number. She'd called and cursed him out for a good ten minutes – Mozzie the Parrot had nothing on her.

Once she finished, once his ears stopped ringing, Neal told her what he needed from her. The things that needed to be moved into the storage locker. He gave her the name of the woman who'd helped him – the one who'd played the EMT. She'd do all of the heavy lifting. And he told her that none of this was a rush. Until he knew that everyone was safe from Woodford's wrath, that locker and his existence would remain their secret.

But now it was time to end the secrets, to stop the pain.

Neal just hoped that his friends – the people he loved and missed beyond reason – would forgive him.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**One year after Neal's "death"**

For three days, Peter had kept his discovery to himself. He hadn't told El, he hadn't told his therapist, he hadn't told anyone. He'd just walked around, pretending everything was normal, but inside, his heart pounded out a rhythm to the melody his brain kept playing.

_Neal's alive. Neal's alive. Neal's alive._

Unlike the stages of grief, which were disorderly and confusing, Peter found his acceptance of Neal's life to be quick and rationale. First there was joy as profound as his grief had been. Then anger - how dare Neal do this to him and El and Moz and June and everyone who cared about him? But the anger passed like a summer storm. Because he understood exactly why Neal did what he did.

And with acceptance and understanding came gratitude.

Woodford had made threats to him at his sentencing, but they'd been all bluster – the standard fare for a career criminal. But what he'd said about Neal and what he would have done to him and everyone he ever loved had chilled him to the bone. Had Neal been alive, Peter doubted that even WitSec could have protected him or Elizabeth or June or Moz.

Neal "died" so everyone he loved could live.

And that sacrifice humbled Peter.

Once he worked through this, other pieces began to fall into place. Pieces that he was embarrassed he'd missed. The doctor handing him the bullet from the gun Keller had used - a bullet miraculously extracted without leaving any surgical scars. The timing of the "ambulance". Neal putting his tracker back on. It all made horrible, but perfect sense now.

And there was one thing he was certain of - Mozzie didn't know. Moz was a good actor when he had to be, but his range was limited. He excelled at playing crazy, but he wasn't a convincing dramaturge. The deep grief and denial in the hospital, even the sadness when he'd met him at the park a few days ago. That was real.

Peter was just as certain that Moz had gotten the news sometime between then and when he'd shown up at the house. Of course he was the one who left the wine on the doorstep. And based on their conversation earlier that day, he'd left the Queen of Hearts in the storage container.

But who'd put everything else there? The obvious answer was someone who had unfettered access to Neal's apartment.

For the first time in a year, Peter made the trip up to Riverside. June greeted him with a smile. He didn't need to ask, she volunteered the information.

"I didn't know until afterwards." 

Peter accepted her unstated apology. "I understand why he did it."

"Do you want to know where he is?"

"Paris, I'm guessing." He pulled out the newspaper with the article about the Louvre security contract. "Is this his doing?"

June nodded. "He's been working on it for a year."

Peter felt a surge of pride at what Neal had built for himself.

"He wanted to prove to you, to everyone, that he could stand on his own. He could be the man, not the con, whatever that means."

"It was something I said to him a long time ago. 'You can be a man or a con, you can't be both'."

June disagreed. "Maybe in your world."

"Maybe."

"He wants to see you, Peter. He needs to see you."

"I know. I want to see him, too. But I can't just pack up and leave to chase after him - my life's different now."

"Neal understands that. Do you want me to give him a message? Tell him you're on your way?"

Peter considered her offer. "No. I need to do this in my own time. If he wants to know my reaction, you can tell him I'm not angry, that I understand."

June nodded. "That is something I can do."

Peter turned to leave, but remembered he had one more question. "I guess you're the one who told Mozzie."

"I did. The only thing harder than telling him Neal was alive was watching him grieve. But he couldn't know – it would have been too dangerous."

Peter agreed. "He stopped by last night, and he said something about not staying in one place too long. I guess he's on his way to Neal?"

June shrugged. "Possibly. But he might be taking his own time, too. I don't think he has your perspective, Peter. He's happy, but he’s very fragile."

Peter understood that. "If you do see him, tell him I wouldn't mind a traveling companion."

"I will."

Peter left and headed home. It was time to tell Elizabeth.

She didn't believe him. "Peter, honey… Maybe you need to talk with someone?" 

"No, I'm fine. Really. This isn't a delusion." He laid it all out for her – the cork with the number on it. The key with the same number that had been part of Neal's personal effects. The storage container yard Jones had tracked Neal to a week before his "death". The storage container itself - filled with the contents of his apartment. The newspaper. And finally, June's confirmation that yes, Neal Caffrey was alive and well and living in Paris.

"But why? Why would he do that to you? He didn't trust that you'd make sure the FBI would honor his contract? Does he have any idea what his little trick did to you?" El's voice rose in her anger and the baby started fretting. "We named our son after a dead man who's really not so dead after all!"

Peter picked Neal up and rocked him until he stopped crying. Then he explained. "The Panthers – especially their leader – would have gone after Neal. They would have gone after June and Mozzie and – "

"And us."

Peter nodded. "Neal did the only thing he could. He staged his own death to protect us." Peter kissed his son's brow. "He did the right thing for the right reason."

Elizabeth gave him a troubled look. "I might have pushed him to do this."

"El?"

She looked like she was about to cry. "I asked him to do everything possible to keep you safe."

Peter reached out with his free arm and hugged her. Moments like this – holding his wife and his son – were what made life worth living. "I think he did this because he loved – loves – us. You didn't push him."

"I wished he'd let us know he was alive. It would have saved you so much pain."

Peter kissed her brow, much like he'd kissed his son's. "He couldn't – I had to testify. If I knew he was alive, I'd end up committing perjury. The Panthers are in jail for the rest of their lives. Their leader's in solitary in the most secure facility in the country. The danger is over. That's why Neal's let us know now."

"Us?"

"Moz knows, too. June told him before he visited the other night."

El took Neal out of his arms and sat down on the couch. "You're going to Paris?"

Peter joined her. "I'd like to. Do you want to come, too?" 

"No – not this time."

"This time?"

"I have the feeling we're going to be taking lots of vacations in France, but I think the two of you need your own reunion, first."

Peter blinked at the almost overwhelming emotions El's words brought. "In case I haven't mentioned it recently, you really are the best wife, ever."

"I know." She leaned into him and he wrapped his arm around her and the baby again.

Life was … wonderful.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It was killing him, not knowing when Peter was going to show up. Every morning he'd wake up and wonder if this would be the day he'd see his friend again. Neal understood that Peter couldn't just drop everything and fly to Paris. He had a family, he had an important job. He'd just spent a year grieving for someone who wasn't actually dead.

June told him that Peter understood, that he wasn't angry, that he didn't hate him. But until he saw Peter, Neal couldn't really allow himself to believe that. Throughout their years together, Peter had been quick to anger, quick to flay him with a sharp tongue, but equally quick to forgive him when he screwed up.

This, however, was bigger – and worse – than anything that he'd done before. Even worse than keeping the Nazi loot from Peter and precipitating Elizabeth's kidnapping.

Mozzie had come and gone, and while he'd be back, Neal couldn't escape the feeling that their relationship was irrevocably damaged. Or maybe it was that he now had a legitimate business where his clients relied on his integrity. It was probably too difficult for Moz to accept that he willingly and deliberately chose this path, unlike the years when he was forced Fed. He hoped that Moz would come around and accept what he'd become, because he missed him as much as he missed Peter.

Neal sighed. He knew he was wallowing and he knew he needed to stop, but he couldn't quite figure out how, so he flopped down on his couch and tried not to worry.

Over the past year, his family had become keenly attuned to his moods and never failed to provide comfort. Peter heaved his bulk onto the couch, and dropped his massive head onto Neal's knee. The drool quickly seeped through his pants, but Neal didn't mind. Clinton was only slightly more graceful as he snuggled under his other hand for a petting. Diana let the cats climb over her. And while she was content to sit on his feet, Bancroft and Hughes jumped onto the back of the couch and from there, onto his shoulders. They started purring and kneading at him. Moz flew out of his cage, took up his favorite perch, atop Peter's head, and starting singing.

Neal didn't know whether to laugh or cry, but he accepted their comfort.

Eventually, the cats got bored and decided to go crazy – chasing each other around the living room. Clinton bit down a little too sharply on Neal's thumb and escaped to his pen to take care of business. In the process, the rabbit kicked Peter in the face, sending Mozzie flying. Of course, the parrot took great offense to the interruption of his serenade. A string of Kiswahili curses followed as he went back to his cage.

Peter just sighed and drooled. Diana rolled over, freeing his feet. Maybe this was a sign. Maybe he needed to get up and get out. "Want to go for a walk?"

The dogs perked up and Diana went into sprinter mode, all but leaping over Peter to get to the door.

He put their leashes on, grabbed some baggies for the inevitable, and away they went. It was a surprisingly comfortable afternoon for July – the temps were in the mid-20s. It had taken a year, but he'd finally started thinking in Celsius. They headed west along the Seine, taking a leisurely stroll. Past Notre Dame, resplendent on the Ile de Cite, then towards the Louvre and Tuileries, the Orsay on the Left Bank. Before the river curved at the Pont de l'Alme, they turned for home.

It had been a good walk and it helped to clear the fog from Neal's mind. Moz would come back. Peter would show up. Maybe not today or next week, but he'd see him, eventually.

Buoyed along by the positive turn his thoughts had taken, Neal turned onto the small street where his apartment was, and stopped. Standing there, in front of the building, was Peter. Tall and broad, maybe a little thinner, but the living embodiment of his hopes and dreams over the last year. He was talking with Charlotte and didn't see him approach. But when he did, Peter's smile was like all the fireworks going off on the Fourth of July.

It lit up his soul.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter needed about two weeks to get this trip organized. There were too many things going on at work to just take off, especially with Diana gone and Jones taking on a more supervisory role. There were other agents he could rely on, but there was no one, yet, who had the right combination of savvy and smarts to step into their shoes.

He was also reluctant to leave El and their son for more than a night or two. Even with the knowledge that Neal was alive and well and looking forward to seeing him, the old anxiety still haunted him.

But the anticipation of seeing Neal alive and well and happy outweighed the irrational worry. He had a minor panic attack on the way to the airport, but El talked him down from it. On the flight, Peter allowed himself to imagine his reunion with Neal. He knew that Neal was settled and happy in his new life and he wouldn't be coming back to New York - at least not permanently. They'd talk into the night - catching up with each other's lives. He'd share all the joys of new fatherhood, spend hours showing him pictures of his namesake, probably boring Neal to tears.

The one thing he wouldn't talk about, though, was what this last year had done to him. That was over, part of his past. The pain had been necessary.

His flight landed mid-afternoon, Paris time. By the time he passed through immigration, claimed his luggage, went through customs, and finally got into Paris, there was no way he could go to see Neal - he needed to decompress for a bit. Peter checked into his hotel and showered, changing into casual clothes - a deliberate choice to make it clear that he was here as a friend. Not as an FBI agent looking to drag the not-so-dead Neal Caffrey back to New York.

Peter also had to admit that these final steps were delaying tactics. He couldn't silence the voice whispering in the back of his head, the one that said that Neal Caffrey was his friend, but Victor Moreau was a stranger. It was illogical, as irrational as his worry about his family, but there was so much between them. Not just the last year, but the tension that had defined their roles - handler and CI, FBI agent and criminal.

He would be meeting Neal - or whatever he chose to call himself - as an equal, and it scared him.

But there was no reason to delay. He'd talked to El, she assured him that all was good, and he even listened to his son babble. 

He had no more excuses and he so headed out. His hotel was a short distance to the address June had given him - no more than ten minutes. As he walked, Peter couldn't help see himself, El and his son walking these streets, going to see someone they loved.

His heart pounding in anticipation, Peter found Neal's apartment building and smiled. Even though this wasn't a private home, it bore a distinct stylistic resemblance to the last place he'd lived in. He checked the directory and the tenant on the fourth floor was listed as "V. Moreau", and to his delight, _(NC)_ was penciled in next to the name. But no one answered when he rang and Peter couldn't help but feel a crushing sense of disappointment. It was a Monday afternoon - why would Neal be home now?

Standing there, debating what to do, the door opened. A woman in her mid-sixties exited and asked, _"Puis-je vous aider?"_

Peter grimaced and lifted his hands in a gesture of ignorance. "I'm sorry, I don't speak French."

The woman smiled. "Then it is a good thing I speak English. Can I help you?"

Grateful, Peter replied, "I'm looking for Victor Moreau - he lives in this building."

The woman's smile didn't fade; a good sign. "Yes, he does. He went out a little while ago - but I don't think he'll be long. You are a friend?"

Before Peter could answer, he heard the sound of approaching footsteps and looked up. There was Neal, casually dressed and holding the leashes of two large dogs. There was a wary expression on his face, but Peter smiled and the wariness was replaced by one of pure joy.

Two steps closed the distance between them and he hugged Neal. It was like that moment in Cape Verde, but so much better. Neal was hugging him, and this time, he was the one who whispered, "I've missed you so much."

He might have held onto Neal forever, but the sudden weight of a heavy paw on his instep broke the moment.

One of the dogs - a Saint Bernard of all things - was stepping on his foot. The other dog - a greyhound - was sniffing him. He knew that Neal loved dogs - how many times had he come over to discuss a case and ended up on the floor, playing with Satchmo.

"These are yours?"

Neal nodded and actually blushed, which intrigued Peter to no end. "You really are a solid citizen."

"Yeah. I am." Neal picked up the leashes and gently tugged, but the dogs seemed fascinated by him. The Saint was crowding him from the right, practically sitting on his feet, and the greyhound was still sniffing him, and when it stuck its nose in Peter's crotch, Neal pulled on the leash again, sharply commanding, "Diana, no."

Peter raised an eyebrow. "Diana? Are you kidding me?"

Neal's blush deepened.

Peter gestured to the other dog. "And I suppose this is Clinton."

"No, Clinton's the rabbit. That's Peter." Neal sighed and shook his head. "And you should know, I have temporary custody of two cats, one's named Bancroft and the other is Hughes. Also - I have a parrot named Mozart."

Peter reached out and let the Saint - _his_ namesake - sniff his hand. He was rewarded with an excess of slobber. "This sounds like an interesting story."

Neal tilted his head towards his apartment building. "Want to come up? I've been waiting a long time to tell you about it."

__

FIN


End file.
